


Love Looks Better In Color

by mardia



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 22:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: Of course I’m not worrying about a soulbond forming as soon as our hands touch. That was one of the first things they knocked out of us at Hendon, thinking that we were any more likely than anyone else to experience the rarest of bonds, simply because we dealt with the public.(Set during the first book, during the scene where Peter agrees to become Nightingale's apprentice.)





	Love Looks Better In Color

**Author's Note:**

> At last, I wrote a soulbond AU! This has taken forever for me to write, especially given how much I love this trope. The fic is basically an excuse for me to write id-fic and give Peter and Nightingale literally all the feelings, so proceed accordingly. Title comes from Lizzo's Better In Color, and huge thanks to sixthlight for her rapid beta skills!

So it’s settled then--I’m going to become a wizard, just as soon as we get the official green light from the Commissioner. 

I hide my smile by taking another long pull off my pint, but Nightingale’s mouth quirks up like he can see it anyway. He quickly finishes off his drink, and then pauses before offering me his hand. “I have to be getting back, but I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

"Yeah," I say. “Me too.”

Of course I’m not worrying about a soulbond forming as soon as our hands touch. That was one of the first things they knocked out of us at Hendon, thinking that we were any more likely than anyone else to experience the rarest of bonds, simply because we dealt with the public. “The statistics actually say that police officers and paramedics on average tend to form bonds at a lower rate than the general public,” the sergeant in charge of us explained our first week there. “So if you’re looking to star in your very own Mills and Boon novel, the door is that way.”

I looked it up afterwards, and the prevailing scientific theory is that police officers (and paramedics, firefighters, everybody who works with the public) are all desensitized somehow; either those who are drawn to the job are naturally less likely to form a bond somehow, or by the job itself.

It’s all rather murky and unscientific, a whole mess of correlation masquerading as causation with ridiculously small sample sizes to boot. The truth about bonds is that nobody knows how they work, how to predict when they’ll happen--we just know that they’re incredibly rare, they’re almost always initiated by skin-to-skin contact, and you’re more likely to die in a car crash than have one.

So no, I’m not expecting anything to happen when I reach out and touch DCI Thomas Nightingale’s bare hand. 

But I do, I take his dry, warm, surprisingly calloused hand in mine and the first thing I feel is this incredible wave of heat, like a flame has traveled through my entire body in the blink of an eye, leaving behind pulsing aftershocks along every single one of my nerve endings. 

It feels, a cliche though it is, exactly like a lightning strike. 

I’m sure I look like an idiot, gaping at him, mouth open as I clutch at his hand. “Did--was that you?”

For half a second, I think it’s some sort of magic that he did--and then I see his pale, shocked face, I can _feel_ the echoes of that shock hammering against my temples, and I know better. 

“Oh shit,” we say at the exact same second, and then I clap my free hand over my mouth while Inspector Nightingale continues to swear under his breath--and then I realize he’s just saying what I’m thinking in my own head, a litany of “Shit, shit shit shit,” over and over, fuck, I think even his accent’s gotten less posh--

I drag both my hands to my temples, pressing in as if that’s going to help keep the words in my own brain instead of coming out of his mouth--except that when I pull away, Nightingale turns to look at me in alarm and I feel a sense of panic and loss that feels doubled somehow, like it’s coming from both of us--

My hand steals right back into his and he holds on tightly, as I squeeze his fingers right back in reassurance. “Okay, let’s not do that again,” I say shakily, and he nods, pale and thin-lipped. 

“Agreed,” he says, and hey, at least he’s not swearing anymore. Nightingale looks down to our clasped hands with that same stunned expression, and through the thick fog of shock and disbelief, I catch a whisper of _something_ \--

“I wasn’t expecting this when I brought you here,” he tells me as he stares down at our hands, in the manner of a confession, and I have to grin. 

He looks up at that, likely sensing my amusement, and I explain, still smiling like an idiot, “No, I can tell that.”

He’s looking at me with an expression that’s shifting from shock to astonishment. It might be a small difference between the two but it feels--better. Warmer, somehow. 

“I suppose,” he says slowly, “I suppose we ought to go in for the testing, to confirm...I’m sure that Abdul would…”

It’s a lot of information, I’m finding. Thinking through what’s happened, processing not just what I’m feeling, but what _he’s_ feeling, trying to put that together with the words he’s saying aloud and seeing if they match up. 

And right now I’m finding they don’t, at least if the chilly feeling of disappointment wafting through my stomach is any indication. “Or we could wait,” I say automatically. “There’s no--the tradition is to have two days together. We could wait, at least until we’re--until it’s more stable. The Met will give us the time off, they have to, it’s employment law.”

Is that my heart beating faster, or is it his? Nightingale looks at me and says, still in that careful way, “And we would--spend the two days together?”

For a moment I forget myself completely and snort. “Obviously.”

I’d worry about pushing it, except that Nightingale suddenly grins back at me, and I get hit with a wave of relief. I beam back at him and, without thinking, let my thumb rub across the knuckles of his hand. 

The sudden sharp inhalation of breath could just be my imagination, except that I know better. 

*

Without needing to talk about it, we head to Nightingale’s car. I keep having to keep track of my hands and legs as I walk. It’s too tempting to lean into Nightingale’s side, let our bodies brush together, have my arm slip around his waist as I--

I shiver just thinking about it. When I look over, Nightingale’s biting at his lip, his hands clenched in fists at his side. He wrenches the door open to the Jag with more force than necessary, and when I slip into the passenger seat next to him, he gives me a bewildered look, as if he has no idea what to do next. 

I have several ideas, even if the Jag has very little room for us to accomplish any of them. 

Well, maybe a _few_ \--Nightingale’s face goes redder as I think of it, and I can feel the heat blooming on my own cheeks. 

“I don’t have a place we can go,” I blurt out. “I’m staying at the station house--my room is the size of a box and I have no privacy--” 

“I have privacy,” Nightingale promises absently, his gaze fixed somewhere in the vicinity of my mouth, before blinking and coming back to himself, suggesting instead, “However, perhaps a hotel…” I get a jumble of apprehension from him, feeling like a too-small, itchy wool sweater. Without thinking, I reach across and put a hand on his knee. 

“I’m in favor of any room with a bed and a door that locks,” I tell him, and Nightingale just gapes at me, a white-hot flash of shock before his face breaks out into a slow, tantalizing smile. 

“That I can manage,” he says, determined, and turns the key in the ignition. 

*

Nightingale does, in fact, manage things. He manages us right into the ridiculously posh Landmark hotel in London, and while I’m gaping at the full sized palm trees they have potted in the atrium, he marches right up to the front desk, his arm still threaded through mine, and demands the first available suite they’ve got. 

“And--would you prefer one bed or two?” the woman at the front desk asks (white, mid-thirties, minimal makeup and her red hair pulled up in a professional bun) professionally not looking for the luggage we haven’t brought with us. 

My attention is brought back from the palm trees, and I say confidently, “One, thanks.”

Nightingale’s attention snaps over to me--well, it’s never really left but it’s more concentrated now--and I just give him a look, because really, we’re supposed to be in this hotel for two days together, what is the point of pretending we’re going to need a second bed?

“Let me see what we have,” the woman at the desk says briskly, but she’s looking me over as she says it, no doubt comparing my jeans and casual jacket to Nightingale’s bespoke suit, among other things. I give her a politely blank smile, not denying or confirming anything. “How long will you be staying?”

I open my mouth to answer, but Nightingale gets there first, his other hand moving over to grip my arm, still threaded through his. “The traditional two days,” he says, in a confiding tone. 

The hint is immediately picked up, as the woman’s eyes grow huge and she blurts out, unthinking, “Do you mean…”

Nightingale gives her a faint smile and squeezes my arm, right where she can see it. 

The dazzled look of glee on her face is--probably something I should get used to, honestly. _Everyone_ gets that look when they see a bonded pair together. “Oh! Oh, I--congratulations! Let me see what I have here, I’m sure we can manage…”

Not only does Madeline (I get a chance to read her name tag while she gushes delightedly at us) find us a suite, she gives us a discount that Nightingale smilingly accepts as our due, and she even offers to show us to our room until Nightingale reassures her that we’ll be able to make our own way up, no need to worry. 

The elevator ride up to the suite feels like an eternity. All I can think about is the careful way that Nightingale is holding himself, how the arm looped through mine is rigid with tension, even as he’s not making a move to pull me in any closer. Just a few more floors and then we’ll, and then _he_ \--

He must pick up something from me, although with the way my head has been spinning since the pub Lord only knows what it is, because Nightingale says, very quietly, “I do...wish to be clear that you shouldn’t feel any obligation. For anything.”

I look over at him, feeling my eyebrows quirking upwards. “Does it feel to you like I’ve been forcing myself to do any of this?”

His mouth curves into a small little smile, just turning up slightly at the corners, and I think dazedly, _whatever happens next, I’m going to be connected to this man for the rest of my life._ “No. But some things are important enough that they should be said aloud.”

*

It takes us three tries to get into the room. Two because Nightingale can’t figure out how the hotel keycard is supposed to work, and then the last because I snatch it out of his hand and get it right on the first try. 

I think of making a quick joke about it just needing the right touch, except that we’re finally in the room and Nightingale is right behind me, his breath hot on the back of my neck and he isn’t touching me at all and I want to fix that. Have to. 

So I wheel around, not caring at all about the luxurious surroundings, and slowly, carefully slide an arm around his waist, over the suit jacket, my fingers splaying out along his spine. 

Nightingale takes in a shuddering breath, his eyelashes dipping downwards, and with the two of us so close, with my hands finally on him, I realize that he’s shaking a little from the twist of longing and fear, desire and hesitation. So much emotion is pouring out of him and suddenly the only thing that matters more than my hands on his skin is making sure that he won’t regret this, that he won’t look at me tomorrow, a week after, months down the line and say that this was a mistake--

“We don’t, we don’t have to--” I start, except that Nightingale makes a noise in the back of his throat and suddenly his hands are reaching up to cup my face, it’s him pulling me in, it’s him that kisses me on the mouth, his lips bruisingly hard against mine and oh God, yes, thank _fuck_. 

I melt into it, dimly aware of the noises I’m making as I open my mouth and let him deepen the kiss. I feel his hands scrabbling at my hips, sliding up and under my shirt and making me groan as his hands sweep across the bare skin of my back and we blindly stumble in what I can only hope is the direction of the bedroom. 

I can’t think past the next five seconds, can’t think past the erection in my trousers and the way that Nightingale's chest is heaving beneath my hands, the way that he’s kissing me like he wants to burn away every neuron in my brain and so far, he’s doing a pretty damn good job of succeeding. Suddenly I’m tripping over the foot over the bed and falling backwards onto the mattress and Nightingale is falling down with me, his body a heavy weight on top of mine. Our kiss is momentarily broken, his face fitting into the curve of my neck, his breathing coming in hot pants against the shell of my ear.

He’s still shaking, his body carrying that same rigidity from earlier. Despite everything that’s just happened and is happening, despite the fact that I can feel him hard against my hip, Nightingale seems to forget everything and just—just holds on to me, hard enough that I can feel the wiry strength in his arms.

I let out a shaky breath, and then another, trying hard to calm myself down, ease the rabbit-pace of my own heart and hope that it’ll help bring us both to a more even keel. 

“We don’t have to do anything else,” I promise him as I stare up at the ceiling, my hands moving in big sweeping circles along his broad back. “We can just, just stay like this, if you want, whatever you want—“

He stirs at that, lifting his head up to peer down at my face. “Is that what you’re trying to be so careful of?” he asks, in a wondering tone. “My boundaries?”

“You look like I should be careful with you,” I say.

“And that’s really your only hesitation?”

My mouth decides to start talking without any input from my brain, and I say, “Well, no, you are pretty horrifyingly posh and I have no idea yet how you’ll get on with my family or how I’ll get on with yours, and work is going to be pretty interesting, but I’m not worried about the _mechanics_.” As Nightingale’s eyebrows creep higher I confess, figuring I might as well go in for the full pound, “I’ve known I was bi since I was sixteen and you’re _really fit_.”

There’s one silent beat, and then his entire face breaks open--that’s the only way I can think of to describe it. Nightingale just breaks open, laughing so hard that he’s shaking against me. I think he might even snort a little. 

Honestly, I’m rather proud of the results. I bite my lip and just keep from squirming beneath him, and say hopefully, “And I assume you’re also not opposed to…”

Nightingale slowly raises an eyebrow, and then he deliberately grinds his hips down, bringing out a gasp from me. “Right, okay, green light confirmed,” I say, a little strangled. “Maybe we could--” Nightingale rolls his hips again, slow and torturous and I make a noise in my throat that is not a whine, absolutely not. “Inspector, please--”

Nightingale pauses, and then says, “Thomas.”

My eyes flutter open--they’d closed without me meaning them to--and I say, distracted, “What?”

“Call me Thomas,” he urges. “Or--well. Call me whatever you wish to.” I caught a jumbled glimpse of images then, my face at the restaurant when he’d said the word master being the most clear of them all. 

It’s not that I’ve been worried, exactly. My thinking since the bond formed has been basically a never-ending loop of _yes yes yes_ and _holy shit_ , with the dim idea that once the two days are over, we can figure out where we’re going from here. But this--Nightingale remembering my reaction, taking it into account--this is the thing that has me thinking, _Oh. This is actually going to be okay._

“All right,” I agree, and deliberately add, “Thomas,” before leaning up to kiss him on the mouth again. 

It builds up quickly after that, Nightingale scrabbling at the zipper to my jeans while I fumble with the buttons to his trousers, and then somehow Nightingale’s got our cocks lined up against each other, thrusting against me as I clutch at him and babble against his panting mouth, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t--”

Nightingale crushes his mouth against mine, and somehow that’s what pushes me over the edge, the unthinking possessiveness in it, the idea that this is all real, permanent, that in the space of less than an hour I’ve become his and he’s now mine, for good--

When I come, it’s overwhelming, like coming up for air after too long spent underwater. I’m dimly aware of Nightingale coming between us too, spilling hot over my bare skin, his low groans the best thing I’ve heard all day. 

“Oh God,” he says, sounding drunk. “That was…”

“Yeah,” I say in agreement. “Jesus.” I tentatively stroke the top of his head, enjoying how soft his hair is against my fingers. Nightingale sighs and leans into the touch, and I pick up another wave of emotions again--satisfaction, contentment, and beneath it all, a sort of disbelieving wonder that’s only growing stronger the longer we lie here, tangled up in each other on top of the sheets. 

I think of not saying anything at all but finally ask cautiously, “Has it, um--has it been a while?”

“Is that meant to be a comment on my performance?” Nightingale asks, his voice muffled as his face is still buried in my shirt. 

“No!” I say, indignant, and Nightingale snickers. “Just...I don’t know. You seem surprised.”

Nightingale stays quiet, and at first I think he’s just not going to answer, and then he says quietly, turning his face to be heard more clearly. “But yes, it...has been a while.”

My stomach clenches in sympathy as I feel the sorrow rising up off him. Then it’s as if there’s a click in my head, Nightingale shutting it all away, becoming still water once more, nothing at all for me to see except my own reflection looking back at me. 

“Well,” I say thoughtfully, and I can feel the way that Nightingale’s bracing himself, which means he’s taken totally by surprise when I roll the two of us over until I’m on top of him, pulling back to straddle his waist. “Suppose we’d better start making up for lost time then.”

The look of delighted surprise on Nightingale’s face only grows stronger as I pull my shirt and jumper up over my head, tossing it blindly away behind me. 

“If you insist,” Nightingale says, but the sudden hoarseness to his voice is gratifying. And then his hands are on my bare chest, curving around my sides, and I lose my train of thought in favor of more immediately gratifying pursuits. 

*

“So you’re a football fan then,” Nightingale says drowsily, much later. 

After round two, we’d ordered dinner to be delivered to our room. The trays carefully placed outside our door, we were now drowsing together underneath the sheets, Nightingale carefully leaning against my side as I’d flipped through the channels until landing on Sky Sports, where Arsenal and Everton were playing at Goodison Park. 

“Yeah, I suppose,” I say. “What about you?”

Nightingale hums in thought, his head slipping a little bit lower, and daringly, I pull him in until his head is resting against my shoulder. The satisfaction rising off of him tells me I’m on the right track, and I smugly leave my arm wrapped around his broad shoulders. “More of a rugby man, myself.”

I snort. “Of course you are.”

“What, is that another horrifyingly posh thing about me?” Nightingale asks, amused. 

I pretend to think about it. “Well, if the hideously expensive shoes fit…” 

“I _beg_ your pardon,” Nightingale says in mock-outrage, and I just start snickering, laughing even harder when I get an elbow in my side. 

“Would you like me to see if there’s any rugby on?” I ask. 

“No, this is tolerable enough, I suppose,” Nightingale says, loftily, and I just grin. 

Honestly, the easy joking is something of a relief. I know how high the success rates are for bonds, I know they’re in our favor, but--well, you never know. It’s early still, and we’ve got the two days for the bond to settle and miles to go yet after that, but--it’s a good beginning, and I can’t help but be hopeful. 

I start tracing circles on Nightingale’s bicep, absently at first, but then with more intent when I pick up on Nightingale’s bewildered pleasure at me touching him so casually. There’s a dull ache in my chest when I think of how touch-starved he clearly is, if even this can catch him unawares.

Good thing it’s my job to get him used to being touched, then. I reach out to trail my other hand along his chest, my fingers trailing through the wiry dark chest hair that contrasts against his pale skin, enjoying the way that Nightingale shivers beneath the palm of my hand. 

“I thought you meant to watch the football,” he says, a little breathlessly. 

“Luckily for you, I can multitask,” I tell him, smugly, and just as Nightingale’s eyes start to narrow at me, I say, “Here, shift up a little.”

It takes a little scrambling, but eventually I’ve got Nightingale lying between my legs, his back pressed against my front and my chin hooked over his shoulder, all of him laid out before me like my very own personal feast. I take my time with him, too, letting my hands travel up and down his chest, his bare arms, until he’s shivering and squirming against me, his breathing heavy in my ear. 

“Peter, for God’s sake,” he says at last, impatience and desire mingling together, “Will you just--”

“Mm. Not yet,” I tell him, and he just swears low under his breath, even as he’s arching up to meet my touch. 

The cursing only gets worse as I reach down, past Nightingale’s cock, to let my fingers skate along his thighs, gently at first, and then letting my blunt fingernails press in until he’s gasping for air. 

“No one likes a tease,” Nightingale finally retorts, but his voice is now ragged, and I hide my grin against his shoulder.

“Seems like you do,” I point out, but before he can tell me off for that, I finally take mercy and reach out to take his cock in a firm grip, working him over until he’s nearly writhing for it, until I can practically taste the desperation he’s feeling, my teeth nipping at his earlobe and my thumb slipping over the head of his cock until he’s finally spilling over my fist, his low gasps the only thing I can hear. 

He’s dead weight in my arms afterwards, breathing heavily. Just as I think of pulling back just enough to get a hand on my aching cock, Nightingale twists around in my arms and kisses me firmly, before sliding down, and down, and lowering his head to take my cock in his mouth. 

“Oh God,” I groan, my head falling back against the headboard with a dull thud. “Please, don’t stop--” But Nightingale keeps going, his mouth hot and wet around me, moving at a steady, relentless pace until I’ve got no words left to beg him with.

I can feel everything, Nightingale’s soft hair in my hands, his deep satisfaction at having me like this, caught and helpless, entirely at his mercy in this soft bed, all his--his to take, to accept whatever he chooses to give, his to keep and protect--

The desperate noises coming out of my mouth are echoing in my ears, and then Nightingale goes down on my cock, and _down_ \--and I choke and come down his tight throat. 

“Oh Jesus,” I groan, once words have returned back to me, and Nightingale places a soft kiss against my bare hip in reply.

*

It’s the middle of the night, and I’m caught in a nightmare. 

“Thomas,” I gurgle, tasting my own blood on my lips, feeling the agony of having a German bullet lodged in my stomach. “Thomas, you have to wake up.”

Nightingale’s face is pale beneath his helmet, covered in grime and shining with sweat. His hands press down even harder against the wound in my gut. “You’ll be all right,” he promises me, his eyes blind with fear. 

I hear an explosion in the distance, the trees of Ettersberg being felled around us, and I say, desperately, “Thomas, you have to--” 

I choke, blood bubbling up on my lips, but I press on. “Wake up. Thomas, _wake up_ \--”

\--and then I’m gasping for air, my eyes flying open to see nothing but the comforting darkness of our hotel room in the heart of London. There’s no bullet in my stomach, no shells flying through the air, no Nazis trying to kill us, just me in this bed and Nightingale shaking like a leaf next to me, his skin slick and cold with sweat. 

I have to swallow twice before I can finally speak. “Thomas?” I whisper into the darkness, my voice cracking. “Thomas, are you…” 

Nightingale takes a harsh breath, and then another, before finally reaching out to me, and then I’m caught in an embrace so tight that I can feel my bones cracking from the force of it. 

“It’s okay,” I promise, holding him as tightly as I can. “It’s okay, I’m here, it wasn’t real--”

He’s still shaking, and he doesn’t reply. And despite my words, I’m starting to wonder if parts of it were real, after all--

But that can be answered later. Now is for placing a comforting hand on the center of Nightingale’s back, ignoring the fact that it’s slick with fear-sweat, placing a kiss to his cheek, ignoring the dampness there that could be sweat or tears. Now is waiting for his heartbeat--and mine--to settle down at last, as I hold him in the dark. 

*

When I wake up the following morning, it’s to a text from Lesley on my mobile that I won’t answer until later, sunlight streaming in through the gap between the curtains, and Nightingale’s arm still wrapped around me. 

There’s too much tension in his body for him to still be asleep, and when I turn over to look at him, sure enough, his gray eyes are open and looking back at me, a crease between his eyebrows that doesn’t disappear, not even when he smiles. 

“Morning,” he says, his voice quiet. “Sorry for...the disturbance last night.”

What a way to put it. As if it had been something as simple as playing your music too loudly and disturbing the neighbors next-door. 

It’s not that I’m angry, or scared. It’s not that I don’t feel the warmth of his body next to mine, not that I don’t want to pull him down on top of me, let our bodies rock together until we find release. 

It’s just that I can think clearly now, I can think past the immediate joy and wonder and yes, lust. I can think about those nightmares, about all the things I don’t know about this man still, and wonder how this will all go three weeks from now, three months from now. 

It’s that I can feel the weight on my tongue of all the questions I haven’t thought to ask. 

So I take a breath, and I ask, “You feel like getting up yet?” At Nightingale’s nod, I ask next, “Want to go and test out the shower?”

Nightingale’s eyebrow slightly rises. “Are we afraid it’s not going to work?” he wonders out loud, but willingly takes my offered hand, and I pull him up and out of bed. 

We’re quiet at first in the shower, which thankfully is large enough for two fully-grown men--thank God for luxury hotels--and I take the lead, getting the shower to a reasonably hot temperature that I assume Nightingale won’t object to, but cooler than the boiling hot temperatures I prefer for my showers. 

“May I?” Nightingale asks quietly when I reach for the bar of soap, and I don’t hesitate before handing it over to him, watching as he quickly lathers it up before he reaches out for me. 

Nightingale is still quiet as he works me over, his hands careful and firm as they move over my neck, my shoulders--I inhale a little as he moves down my bare chest and his fingers brush against my nipples, but despite the momentary quirk of his lips, Nightingale doesn’t take the opening, and I’m a little relieved myself. This isn’t sexual, it’s just--intimate. So intimate that I’m almost breathless from the ache in my chest. 

God, the tenderness in how he’s touching me. When we’re like this, there’s no hiding from his emotions--the weariness tangled together with the relief and pleasure of having me so close, in not having me pull back warily--and behind all that, a cold thread of apprehension. 

I watch as the water runs down his throat, and see him swallow hard before saying, “I don’t have nightmares like that every night. I feel I ought to reassure you on that.”

I bite my tongue against the first careless remark I could make, and ask, tentatively, “So...were you in the military, then? Before joining the Met?”

Nightingale nods, water beading on his lowered eyelashes. 

“Iraq or Afghanistan?” I ask, and I can feel the tension building in his shoulders (and therefore in mine) and I know I’ve gone wrong somewhere, but I can’t think _where_ \--surely that dream was a metaphor. “Or--was it the Balkans?” 

Nightingale’s hands go still on my chest, and I carefully loop an arm around his waist, pulling him in closer. “No, I was in Germany. In 1945, fighting the Nazis, just as you saw.” He looks at me and says next, very slowly, “I’m...rather a lot older than I look.”

I stare at him, blankly, as steam rises all around us in a cloud. “Thomas,” I say at last, “what the _fuck_?”

*

“So,” I say, lying down on the bed wrapped in the terrycloth robe Nightingale found in the closet. “Is there anything else I should know about?”

“Probably,” Nightingale concedes from where he’s sitting next to me, perched on the edge of the bed. “But I’m not quite sure where to start.”

His voice is light, but I can feel the tension along his shoulders, the lurch of his stomach signalling his apprehension. 

I lift my forearm off my face and look over at him. It’s incredible how familiar his face already seems to me, from the strong jawline to the faint lines around his mouth. 

I wonder momentarily if it's the same for him, then mentally shake my head. Of course it is, that's the whole _point_.

"So will I grow older than you, then?" I ask.

Nightingale sighs. "It's not guaranteed--but it is very possible, yes."

I stay quiet for a moment, then say, "I suppose this is part of it too, isn't it. Not just the wild sex, but finding out what we need to know about each other, figure out if this.." I trail off. 

Nightingale looks at me, and then he asks, "What else do you need to know?"

Right now I could ask him about anything--whether he has family left and if so, what they'll make of me. If there's a chance that functional immortality will be mysteriously gifted to me one day without warning. Just how wealthy is he, to afford suits like that, and does he expect me to start wearing bespoke suits as well? 

But when I open my mouth, it's to ask the only question that really matters. "What happens if we can't make this work?"

Nightingale's eyes flicker, and he doesn't pretend not to know what I mean. "Peter, I have been looking for an apprentice for quite some time. Someone...tough, and clever, someone who wouldn't run at the first sight of something they couldn't explain."

"Someone who tries to interview a ghost in an alley?" I offer, and Nightingale momentarily smiles. 

"Yes, exactly." He grows serious again and tells me, "I need you as my apprentice, Peter. I have been looking for someone like you for a very long time." He swallows and adds, his voice halting, "And I...I want you as my bondmate, of course I do. Anything that I can do to make this work, I will. But...if it can't, if you're not happy or if you choose to leave--I won't stop you. Not ever. This I swear on my power."

I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, some hidden knot of worry unraveling within me as he speaks. 

He's watching me so patiently, not pushing for a response, and I know that right now, he'd accept any answer I would give him--whether it was goodbye or just a request for more time so I could be sure--

But there can never be any real guarantees, I'm learning. There's never enough time to be sure, there's just knowing what you want, and what you're willing to risk in pursuit of it. 

"I wasn't expecting you either," I tell him, reaching out to touch his face, his skin warm beneath my fingers. "But I do want this. You and the magic, that's what I want. I don't have any power to swear it on, but I mean it anyway."

Nightingale starts to smile at me, slowly at first, but growing until his smile is brighter even than the sunlight streaming through the windows. "Your word's enough for me," he says, and leans down to seal the bargain with a kiss, his mouth warm and reassuring against mine.

*

"Hold up, what do you mean you've got a _mansion?_ "

Nightingale sighs, poking at his poached eggs--we'd ordered a late breakfast to be delivered to our rooms, but it's slow going making our way through it, what with all the questions I still have to ask. "It's not my personal mansion, Peter, it's the Folly headquarters--"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the Folly is basically you at this point, right?" Nightingale gives me an exasperated look, but doesn't deny it, and I just grin back at him. "Don't fuss, my mum'll be thrilled to hear I've landed a man with his very own mansion."

I mean it as a joke, and Nightingale does smile, but it fades quickly. "Peter...how will your family take the news?"

"Fine," I say without thinking, but Nightingale's forehead creases don't go away, as he's clearly waiting for more elaboration than that. Which is fair, really. "I mean, Dad won't care--" I wince as I realize how that sounds, and explain, "It's just that he never really worries or fusses over anything. He'll be absently pleased for us, and that'll be an end to it. It's my mum who's going to have very loud opinions. But she'll be fine with it, I promise."

"Opinions such as?"

I pause, because I'm not sure if he's ready to hear this, but he's asking, so I guess he is. "Well, she'll want to know if we're planning to have kids, and she's not going to be shy about asking, so be prepared for that. She'll have opinions on the age difference, she's probably going to grill you about your politics and your finances and your family tree--"

Nightingale is fighting back a smile. "So it'll be a proper interrogation then," he says. 

"MI-5 has _nothing_ on an African mum meeting a prospective in-law," I say. 

Nightingale breaks out laughing at this, and I only shake my head in disapproval, because he clearly has no idea--but that's fine, he's going to learn soon enough. 

The thought sticks in my head, and I start to grin back at him, because he will learn, all about my mum and my dad and my thousand other relatives, and the year I lost my Lego sets to my thieving cousin, and why I chose to join the Met. Just like I'll learn about Ettersberg, and his family, and what it's been like for him over the course of his long, long life. 

We've got plenty of time, and we'll learn. 

Nightingale's smile turns a little quizzical, and I shake my head, reassuring. "Don't worry," I tell him. "She'll like you just fine."

*

I was right, of course. My mother does have a lot of opinions, which she shares with us, at great length. But she does it while feeding us enough food for an army, and Nightingale winning her over for good when he not only cleans his plate, but actually asks for seconds. 

He ought to look completely out of place, sitting there in my parents’ flat, right in the heart of the estate where I grew up. But his expensive jacket is slung over his chair, tie loosened, and he catches my eye and smiles as he tells my wide-eyed parents about seeing Billie Holliday performing live in New York in her prime, and I smile and lean back in my seat and listen to him talk. 

There’s a bad moment where my dad excuses himself for the evening to go and take his ‘medicine’, and Nightingale politely doesn’t ask any questions or give a single hint of finding this unusual. He just reaches out and touches my wrist, right above the bandage covering my newly tattooed skin, where the looping ink winds around my wrist, and I breathe in and out, letting the tension leave my body. 

My mother doesn’t miss this, and asks us briskly, “So. When is the wedding?” That we are having a wedding, despite our bond being legally recognized and us already having all the legal protections of marriage, is not up for debate. Thankfully, we’re not opposed to the idea. 

“We were actually thinking of delaying it for a while,” I say, and as she frowns at that, I add hastily, “Just because we’ve got this new case and it’s taking up all our time--”

“You don’t need to worry, I would plan it,” my mother reassures us loftily. 

“Oh, we couldn’t leave all the work to you,” Nightingale says quickly, picking up on me beaming _no no no no NO_ right at him. “Truly, we’d far prefer to schedule it for a less hectic time, one where we can fully, ah...enjoy the process.”

My mother narrows her eyes at him, and I can feel Nightingale’s shoulders straightening in response--which really shouldn’t be possible, given his excellent posture. “But you _are_ having a wedding.”

“Of course,” he reassures her, and my mum sniffs and settles back into her seat. 

“Hmm,” she says, taking a sip of her tea. “Peter, go and make a new pot,” she says to me, and as I escape to the kitchen, she says to Nightingale, “Now, tell me more about your time in New York. Who else did you see perform?”

“Well,” Nightingale begins, and I smile as I go to put the kettle on. 

“They like you,” I say later, once we’re heading out for the night. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Nightingale says, smiling at me. “And I liked them--your parents are charming.” He pauses, and adds, “And you were right about your mother’s interrogation skills.”

I snort. “Told you.”

“Do you mind putting the ceremony off?” Nightingale asks as we finally get within sight of the Abso. 

“No, why would I?” I ask, surprised. “We’ve got absolutely no time to plan some big ceremony, and it’s not like we’re any worse off legally than we are now. But we still have to have one.”

“Yes, I’d gathered that from your mother,” Nightingale says dryly. 

“Not just that,” I say, and as Nightingale gives me an inquiring look, I let it fly. “Just imagine the wedding present Seawoll’s going to have to pick out for us.” 

Nightingale bursts out laughing at this, and I laugh with him. Honestly, it’s not entirely fair--Seawoll’s been fairly decent about being handpicked by the Commissioner to act as a supervising officer, given the unusual set up at the Folly. It’s just that every time he has to visit us at Russell Square, it’s hard to pick who’s giving off bigger vibes of _fuck my life and fuck this in particular_ , him or Nightingale. 

As I get into the passenger seat, Nightingale says thoughtfully, “We could have a small ceremony, though.”

I blink in surprise, and then I get it. “At the Folly?”

Nightingale nods in confirmation. “With your parents, and Molly and Abdul, of course--”

I think of it, of the two of us standing together in our best suits in the atrium, our hands linked together, no fuss, nothing over the top--just us, and the people who matter watching in approval. “Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Yeah, that sounds all right.”

Nightingale smiles, hearing the rest of what I’m not saying aloud. He starts the car and pulls out of the parking spot, his free hand resting on my wrist, right above the tattoo that has its twin on his own skin. We don’t need to be touching for me to feel the contentment radiating off him. I can feel it like the heat of the sun in midsummer, growing more and more familiar with each day that passes. But it makes it better when I am.


End file.
